“Due to the Republican Party’s revived interest in author Ayn Rand, noted editor Blag Dahlia (the Dwarves) has unearthed a piece that has remained unpublished until now. We present it here in an effort to educate those who might learn from it, and confuse those who might not.”
by Ayn Rand
Edited by Blag Dahlia
For the second time that afternoon the telephone slammed down with a satisfying bang. Gaul could hear Muffy’s rapid breathing and almost smell her pheromones as they wafted up from under the cloud of Woolite and lavender that encased her wanting form. Deftly he took her in his arms and held her close.
“Why must ‘human’ be synonymous with ‘weak’,” he wondered, wishing as he sometimes did that he had been born ten centuries earlier and had sailed the seas in a Viking ship plundering, looting and going where the four winds blew him. Without hesitation he could decapitate Ron Thane, rape his wife and sell his (no doubt effeminate) progeny into slavery if he felt like it and none of the other Vikings would bat a blond eyelash. Modern civilization was a trap and unreasoning sentiment its sticky malodorous bait. He looked deep into Muffy Creig’s clear blue eyes and asked-
“I thought that went rather well, didn’t you?”
At 7PM that evening they were still going strong, he hard at work brainstorming marketing strategies for the X-1000 and she taking dictation at lightening speed. Manhattan glowed and buzzed in the background as ideas flew like pterodactyls through a primordial ooze colored sky. The lights that twinkled and shone across the city served to remind him that the competition never rests and that soon agents of Amalgamated Industries and their socialist ilk would be hounding him again. He had to find a way to utilize the unassailable concepts and techniques of the free market to warn his fellow entrepreneurs of the gathering threat to their way of life and toward that end successful marketing of the X-1000 was key.
“The X-1000 makes problems…disappear! The X-1000…technology you can use! When greatness beckons…the X-1000!”
Each idea was like a mighty chip in the façade of the old world order. Every new phrase brought him closer to that moment when he could look the future in the eye, spit, and then gouge that eye out with the X-1000. In a sublimely productive life it truly was the most remarkable contraption he had ever created and though he knew that it was vain he allowed himself a silent moment to gloat. He and he alone had fabricated it from nothing but blood, sweat and an advanced degree in engineering made possible by scholarships and grants. A dewey eyed Muffy Creig looked up from her legal pad and asked-
“Weren’t you going to take a plane ride with Brownie this evening?”
And to think he had forgotten all about it. Wouldn’t you know that Muffy would remember, still going strong and looking fresh as a daisy even after twelve hours on the job. Gaul checked yet another cel phone, set to silent, and sure enough a message had come through hours ago, but he had been so absorbed in work that he had missed it.
“Slight delay, but I’ll be there for sure. You have a date with Destiny!”
That was just like Brownie. No specifics, just ‘I’ll be there.’ It had been that way for years now, ever since the idealistic fighter pilot had hooked up with Special Forces and found himself knee deep in international drug traffickers, Islamic terrorists and African rogue statesmanship.
Gaul wasn’t much given to concern for others, reasoning that compassion was wasted on those who needed it, but if there was one man who deserved an ounce of understanding it was Major Reardon Browne (Ret.), driven to distraction by the tireless demands of his own talents and the unwavering jealousy of those who would subdue or exploit them. The parasites!
Suddenly the door to the office was kicked in and three black shirted goons leveled Russian made automatic weapons at Gaul and his secretary ordering them to lie on the ground with their hands behind their heads.
“I’d sooner die on my feet than live on my knees,” observed Gaul, deftly hurling a souvenir paperweight from his desk and neatly decapitating the largest of the three, his neck spurting blood in a pulsing waterfall of gore.
“If this is to be war,” Gaul thought, “than so be it!”
The two surviving ruffians looked at each other in horror for one long moment and then took off running down the hallway. Gaul looked at his secretary, her blouse still neatly pressed and her skirt holding its pleats admirably.
“Don’t call the police, Muffy, they’re probably in league with these leeches. Open the safe and put my notes from today in there. Then call Brownie and tell him to rush over here as fast as he can. And p.s., I love you!”